Claude Visits Nice, circa 1410
by GreyFlank
Summary: (COMPLETE CHRONICLE COLLECTION!!!) A Malkavian follows a Thousand Points of light and tries to build a bridge to the future. Vampire: Dark Ages: Read it now before it gets turned into a NOVEL! (http://www.geocities.com/thedistantmirror/index.html).
1. PRELUDE: I, Claude

My nature is a psychopath and my demeanor is... Visionary.  
  
I was born in the 1100's with a thirst for knowledge, somewhere near Paris. I joined the  
priesthood and become a monk where I was trained as a scribe. For twelve hours a day, I  
meticulously created flawless copies of the bible. In my off-hours my quill did not rest, and I  
began to draw detailed diagrams plants and flowers, but I grew bored.  
  
I moved onto animals and learned many interesting things about organic mechanisms. I could see  
the glory of god in the architecture of muscles and bones that made up his brute creations.   
Vivisection, the cutting up of dead animals in the pursuit of science, was a crime at the time, and I  
believe it still is, in fact. Those afraid to see god in _all_ his glory shunned and denounced my  
glorious work, as I was a man truly ahead of my time.  
  
Eventually, when my thirst for knowledge would not diminish, the Abbot expelled me from the  
monastery. Not that I hadn't tried to comply with their wishes; I had ceased to kill any animal  
before dissecting it. I had discovered that if one is very, very careful an animal can be coaxed to  
live through any trauma for a periods at a time.  
  
I lived in exile then, selling my drawings to those who would call themselves physicians, but did  
not have the nerve or verve to vivisect human corpses. I could not afford to stay in one place too  
long, however, and soon found myself living in the mountains. I forget the name of the  
mountains, but I am sure they have forgotten my name as well.  
  
I was not alone however. Another preyed upon the wild animals and he was quite sloppy about it.   
He was a raving lunatic, but quite handsome in his bestial way. I begin sketching him from afar,  
hiding the evidence of his feedings from the locals. Thus the beast knew peace for the first time in  
many long years. That may well have been my first mistake.  
  
He let me drew closer with each encounter (allowing me to draw in more detail, co-incidently),  
even inviting me to share in his meal once or twice. I'd already eaten the meat he'd left behind  
dozens of times, so I saw no harm in sucking at the dead flesh, so fresh that it was steaming in the  
night air, as was his custom. I complimented my host on how handsome he was, what with the  
blood reflecting the moonlight off his powerful face.  
  
So impressed was he with my manners, that he brought me across for dessert.  
  
Since that time, my thirst for knowledge has not diminished one iota. I've discovered that I have  
certain predilections, include dissecting living mortals... slowly. I once dissected a fellow kindred,  
but grew bored and misplaced him before I finished. I should find the chap one day and put him  
out of his misery one way or another, but that's another story.  
  
I design and construct bridges and buildings now. On paper, at least. I am an engineer, they say,  
although I prefer to be called an artist. I am rich enough now that I can employ people to call me  
an artist. I have hidden many bodies for my fellow creatures of the night within my bridges, most  
of whom are dead.  
  
The bodies, that is. My fellow vampires are alive, of course. In a matter of speaking, of course.   
The structures are neither living nor dead, although I have no proof in either case.   
  
My havens are many, some being nothing more than a dark hole to drop my body into. 


	2. Welcome to Nice

France is known for its key role in the history and development of European culture and its rich traditions, from literature and the arts through to cuisine, sports and style.   
  
Geographically diverse, it is often said that France offers all the landscapes of Europe in microcosm. From the Mediterranean to the English Channel, each region has a strong local identity, often retaining ties with older cultures and its many neighbours. French universities reflect this range, including sites in Normandy and Brittany in the North, the Champagne region, the Rhineland neighbouring Germany, the south coast, and the Atlantic west where I was able to lend a hand during the design and construction stages years past.   
  
Nice, the fifth largest city in France, acts as a magnet attracting people from all over the world, for a multitude of reasons, Not only renowned for its grace, Nice has become a hub for research in Literature, Theology and advanced necromancy since the creation of such centers as Necro-Acropolis and Sophia Antipolis. The Palais de Congrès Noctem, a center, can for study my sponsor, Prince Lousia, is considering my petition to build will accommodate diverse functions with a capacity that only Paris can better.   
  
Nice also attracts Kindred. I would not have thought so, but it is true. Why, one randomly selected farmhouse yielded a number of Vampires that exceeded the accepted aggregate of one hundredth of a vampire, with at least six other Kindred, counting myself. Several witnesses have thrown about the number 17, although this seems highly unlikely, I was too busy silencing the mortal witnesses to actually stop and count our number.  
  
I killed myself, too, just to tie up all the knots for the local villagers. Laying there dead with my dagger sticking out of my gut was very relaxing. But I digress.  
  
Both elegant and simple, Nice's charm comes from its exceptional climate as well as its beauty. Even in the winter the café terraces are filled with people happily drinking and contemplating the ultra famous Promenade des Anglais. Always in flower, this wonderful walk follows along the bay, looking out onto the Baie des Anges, the beaches on one side, the Roman aqueducts I'd come to study on the other.   
  
The architecture of Nice can be astonishing with the wild exaggerations of the Belle Epoque style or the newer Baroque style of building houses and marisions on the hills of Mont Boron. Fabulous creations have been realized in the floral gardens and parks of the hills of the Chateau, the Chambrun park or the Espace Masséna. Almost makes me miss the sun.  
  
Actually, somehow I did miss the sun. I woke up buried in a shallow grave, covered in a canvas bag and limestone. And dirt, of course. Still had my dagger on me, imagine that.  
  
There were only a handful of Kindred left in the barn, but they did not appreciate the boon I had given them by distracting the locals with the dead meat... They were content to hide under a donkey's latrine pit all day, which upset the poor constipated Donkey to no end.   
  
I chatted pleasantly with my new friends as I loaded the donkey cart I had inherited. The nice Bravo-Guy confirmed my ownership in the farm, although he did not actually have the deed to give me. That would have been asking too much, I suppose.  
  
Anyhoo, I took my new goods (mortal chow) into town and I decided to sell them to the Kindred friendly Inn I knew about. I cleaned myself off and gave the goods to the Inn-Keeper as coin for my stay. I went off to visit the Prince and she invited me to stay at her place, which is a good thing. I had forgotten to leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind me back to the Inn.  
  
Pity that, I had plans for the donkey.  
  
The only way to get to know the real Nice is by strolling through the ochre colored streets listening to the "Niçois" speaking their own language (Nissart) and by tasting their savory cooking. Of course, as a vampire, one can only really look at it. Back in the day when I could walk in the sun, I would never pass up an opportunity to consume the onion, anchovy and olive tarts called Pissaladières, the vegetable and tuna sandwiches known as Pan Bagnat, the Salade Niçoise or the famous Ratatouille (tomatoes eggplant and zucchini squash stew). The main cooking ingredient is olive oil, of course, and many of the dishes are garnished with the succulent little black Nice olives called Caillettes.   
  
Sometimes, I am tempted to kidnap a mortal, feed him this food and lap it through his blood. Or have I done that already? Perhaps I have, for I am certain it would not be the same. How else would I know that?  
  
Nice is also a city of art and culture and, after Paris, has the most museums in France. The city is animated at night as well as in the day especially in the summer when minstrels wander the streets begging to have their throats cut and stilled with a flood of their own blood. But I digress.   
  
My new friends showed up for a little Gathering soon after. It was a very nice affair, although I had to ask for a "package to go." The poor lad might still be able to function in the Prince's kitchen, but I doubt it. He's not good for much else now but as a "serving" rather than a "server."  
  
The Prince likes my designs, but the Palace of the Night Congress might be a bit too ambitious. Perhaps I will build another bridge, instead. I like bridges. I'm not sure if I mentioned any of this to the Prince.  
  
We took away the weapons of one of my friends. Sorrow is a mortal, I think. Or a werewolf. If that's the case, he's mad to be here.   
  
I like that in a person. There's something purer about their screams, somehow. 


	3. Stalking Shadows

I am in the heart of Nice. It's an ideal place to loiter, taste, smell and look around. Typical Italian market areas, except for the fact the French claim it as theirs. (The Niçois have not yet claimed France, and I sense a reluctance to do so.) It is a genuine walk or climb domain, a maze of winding alleys and very small streets with stairs covered by hanging laundry, by day, or so they tell me.  
  
Clothing hung out to dry at night tend to vanish very quickly, as quickly as hapless Toredors within the darkness of shiftless Lasomba villains.  
  
I followed the inky blackness from Lousia's party into the heart of the city. There are a lot of small restaurants, exotic shops, cafes: all closed this deeply in the night. Were it day time, the roads would be thick with the milling masses at the open air stalls with sausages, cheese, pizzas, fruits confits and broiled sucking pigs, delights I can only dream about in what passes for erotic moments in my undead body.  
  
I could look up and admire facades adorned with "trompe l'oeuil" and frescoes, or linger over the high maison de maitre and picturesque squares, all the while trying to ignore the strange, mingling odours, but there goes the darkness and it is hard to follow such a thing in the inkwell of the night.  
  
At rue Pairoliere, the suspected darkness peels away and gives access to the adorable place Saint-Francois. Every day, a picturesque morning fish market is held here, full of chaos and milling, knives flashing and cleavers chopping, and this has been a good place for a Kindred such as I to sneak in a meal or two before dawn. Two hours before dawn, the area is swept of the harmless and the homeless so they might stagger off before the fishmongers arrive. I have assisted in their relocation from time to time, being careful not to sup from one too deeply or twice. The mark of insanity my overindulgence sets upon the kine would draw too much attention and endanger the Masquerade, so I am careful.  
  
Don't laugh. I can be careful and discreet when it suits my needs.  
  
But I digress. Suffice to say, I am familiar with the area these last two weeks and this makes tracking the kidnapping Kindred a bit easier. Plus my mind is clear, for those that endanger my sponsor endanger my vision. There are four Lasomba and one torpid Toredor. Torpidador? They stop before they go any closer to the Palais de Justice and climb into the sewer.  
  
I said, DO NOT LAUGH! My mind was certainly clear that night and I will show you that clarity by starting with the second gathering.  
  
Of course, it wasn't the second gathering ever in Nice, but the second I was to attend since designing the Library at the university where I had a small crypt-like room all to myself. I had stayed with the Prince only long enough for her to give me leave to pursue inquiries on behalf of my proposed Palais de Congrès Noctem.  
  
For the past two weeks, I have needed to maintain my privacy to pursue my studies of anatomy in any case, to explore Nice more fully, and to seek an apprentice amongst the kine. That my purpose should be threefold pleased me; invoking trinity reminding me of happy days of yore: transcribing His word, rendering art that was but a mere shadow of Divine creation, and keeping my vow of silence, all to give glory to Our Father.  
  
I needed a technically brilliant student of architectural engineering totally lacking in original insight, strength of character, and close friends who might be suspicious of any changes he might undergo. I have narrowed my interest to a handful of candidates, chief among them a young Austrian by the name of Wolfgang van Helsing.  
  
I suppose I will actually have to ghoul him, although I am reluctant for reasons I can not say. I am sure I have done so before, but if I have, where are they now? I will check my sketch book later, for if they are within the pages, I will know what happened to them.  
  
My studies of anatomy have suffered these past two years on the run from the Inquisition. It is interesting to note that the Inquisition pursues me not because they suspect I am a childe of Darkness (In truth, I am the childe of Flint of the Mountains, but that is of no concern to anyone, perhaps not even the mad rat-catcher himself), but that they have pursued me instead thinking that I am either a mad vivisectionist or a godless Augurist.  
  
I have been more careful about who I show my personal portfolio to these days. Nights. I can hardly blame the Inquisitionists for I am a vivisectionist and an Augurist, as well as something the can not possibly truly comprehend. I still do God's work, for God is in the details, they are simply not enlightened enough to know this, the poor fools.  
  
I linger as I walk down rue Guidaria, a Jewish ghetto within the Christian city and almost as hated as my kind. Our kind. Once I might have spit upon them but now I know they are but simple kine with a slightly different covenant with the same God than I had as a mortal monk. A much more different covenant than I now have with God, and from here the Christian and Jewish covenants hardly seem different at all.  
  
And I have certainly looked inside both and found both remarkably, or not so remarkably, alike. The thumbprint of God can be seen in all his creations, even such as we. Perhaps I will show you sometime, eh?  
  
Rue Guidaria figures prominently in my dreams and I am sure this is where the Palais de Congrès Noctem shall rest, hidden below the maze of cellars, caves and sewers that shall one day be the Jews escape and destruction. Within the lifetime of these cloistered Jews, perhaps a scant score of years from now, when the ghetto shall be locked up at night by thick chains and cruel iron fences, laughably for the protection of the Jews.  
  
In truth, Prince Louisa, or someone very much like her, will allow this for she fancies the Jews as poor, artless people who hardly any one will miss. The Brujah, seeking to expand from the docks, will slip amidst the crafty money-lenders, offering protection and services suited to their physical nature. The Ghetto will become theirs, and it is for this reason I have sought an ally in the late Brujah Elder Bart.  
  
Of course, he wasn't late at the time. Try to keep up, please.  
  
It was clear to me that I was stalling, dallying in the ghetto, pondering what I would say when I got back. Bart was supposed to live and Guy was supposed to achieve final death in saving his Elder's life from a threat I knew nothing of, even in my wildest dreams. Not that I hadn't ever dreamed of Lasomba attacking en masse during a party, I just didn't know how the threat would manifest itself.  
  
I assumed threateningly, of course. In darkness, of course.  
  
When I sensed things going wrong during the battle, I tried to get my friend, Howard to rescue the Brujah primogen. Instead, he merely looked at me like I was crazy and told me I was lucky he didn't kill me where I stood. I knew he was close to blood fury; I simply needed him to do that deep within the darkness. I was so angry, I threw my dagger into the darkness randomly with all my blood accelerated strength.  
  
What a waste.  
  
I charged into the darkness. The darkness receded.  
  
I charged in again. The darkness retreated.  
  
Hmmm. Curious, yes? I obscured myself and stepped into the darkness. The darkness moved away from me. I followed the darkness because it was a curious thing and I recovered my dagger. I crossed over the dead, with absolutely no curiosity over their corpses. I was disappointed in the Brujah and I knew I should not be. The Brujah are predictable in a chaotic sort of way, which serves my purposes well enough, usually.  
  
No, something interfered. Perhaps Guy has been seduced to the dark side. Well, the darker side. It'll come to me eventually.  
  
My biggest fear at the moment, however, was that the Howard might have mistaken my warning and my intent in throwing my dagger into the darkness. Certainly, he wouldn't think a dagger would do his Elder in, but I have taken his measure, he is -- in his undead heart of hearts -- a defender. Better to wait until something else attracts his attention before I reappear.  
  
Sorrow. Sorrow. Sorrow.  
  
Perhaps a mortal, perhaps a mage. Whatever he is, there is a judge beneath his skin and I wonder at that. He is going to introduce me to Garou at some point in the near future, or so he says. It does not feel like something that is going to happen, but perhaps I forget about it in the future, so I can not recall it now.  
  
Or perhaps it is one of those things that must happen first before I can recall it. It is not an uncommon occurrence. In any event, I will distract my Kindred by defending my friend, Sorrow. He was to be watched, as I recall, but as I did not care overly much about him at the time, I did not pay much attention to the details of that "protection" the Prince offered.  
  
As I recall, I was a bit too distracted at the time by my chicken and my new Tzimisce friend who, despite his odd looks, shared not only in my whimsy but the details on how I conducted my own exploration of organic mechanics. He was bemused and curious how much he might learn from such invasive and oft-times fatal deconstructions, as it never has occurred to him that there are things the ease of flesh-crafting might make him overlook. Perhaps we will share notes very soon.  
  
Yes, I realize I am a bit distracted. Ah, yes.  
  
I had a plan and a back-up plan. If the Sorrow thing did not unearth something interesting, I could turn the focus on Georgie. After all, he could be the other Tzimisce and who would know but a Toreador obsessed with who wore what to a gathering? Not I. Certainly.  
  
That made me think about the ugliness the Sabbat might be inflicting upon the poor male Tornovaries. Not that I don't think the average Toreador could use more ugliness in their life, but my Prince is a Toreador and my sponsor as well. There can be favours exchanged later, perhaps, as her clan is important to her. Even the least of the Toreadors surely did not deserve to die in a sewer, although the irony would have a certain flair.  
  
I interrupted a scene and said my piece about Sorrow's protection. Did the Nosferati abandon him? Did he kill them off? Damn me for my drama, for the point was not only moot, but the plot was moot as well. I might have well demanded to know where the Prince was during the battle, for all were distracted by my friend, Georgie, who seemed a little... drunk? No... happy. Satiated: YES!  
  
There was a husk in front of him. Oh, yes. He had been naughty, but suddenly, I knew what to do, for I didn't want my prince and my circle of friends at odds.  
  
I told my Prince about the Sabbath and the missing Toreador going down the drain. I told them how much we needed Georgie because he looked very much like the other who had fallen (and Georgie was kind enough to change his face so as not to make a liar out of me).  
  
The plan?... well, there was no plan... things were a little confused. Or perhaps that was just me. They all insisted that it should be me who went first, obsufisiticated. I tried to explain that the second I moved the sewer cover I would be seen! But they would not listen to reason: that it was Geogie who should go first.  
  
At least, not until it was someone else's idea. Funny thing that. I must gather their trust some how for surely fate would not have thrown us altogether without a reason. To that end, I told them I knew the sewers of France like the back of my hand. Technically speaking, of course, this wasn't QUITE France; not in the hearts of its people and the heart is where the ultimate truth lies.  
  
Of course, if the Ultimate Truth is going to lie why should any of us attempt honesty in the first place? Tell me that.  
  
Besides, the sewers of Nice are but the innards, the intestines and bowels of the city. These are things I know. The next few hours should be interesting. 


	4. Les Egouts du Paradis

"Les Egouts du Paradis," that is what I wrote on the vellum, just before sketching out what little I could recall of the sewers of Nice. It was a simple page from my notebook, really, I didn't have time for anything else. Nothing at all. Nothing.  
  
Except, for the chemicals. I owed the idea to Roddy. I had asked the Lasomba what we needed to beat back those tentacles of darkness he's so proud of. Bright light, he'd said, and instantly I recalled that phosphor ignites when exposed to air. But the heat is not all that frightful, nor so bright. Then I recalled, from my studies, that magnesium produced the kind of frightful light I would need.  
  
I had set aside time for testing. The ratios seemed right, but I did not want to risk being made a fool of in front of the future primegen of the Brajhas. He was finally taking me seriously, and I didn't want to ruin it. After this evening's setback, this was my chance to make Harold the hero he needs to be in front of the Prince, and take my dreams of the Congress of the Night a step closer to gestation. But, testing... well, in retrospect, my beefy Anarch delight... I should have tested the damn things, but I was just so elated Harold was trusting me... well, how could I tell him that maps of the sewers of Nice did not exist per se? That the catacombs that I recall might very well be from a time yet to come. He, like you, is such a wonderful brute, how could he truly understand, really? He trusted it and that was all that mattered, really.  
  
And all it took was knowledge no one else had, a sensible plan, and a white-powdered wig.  
  
I'm really impressed and grateful no one looked on the back of the map. I know the Toreador was curious and, having seen my most special sketches and etchings (they inspired her to order Harold to carry off Roddy, so that they might... hmmm, I am not sure what my simple drawings might have inspired her to do... but I must remember to keep an eye on how she influences Harold in the future. If you live, remind me that I might have to kill her to see my vision come to pass). If she looked, she said nothing.  
  
Perhaps it is because the exposed rib cage of a red squirrel does bear a great deal of resemblance to certain aspects of the ancient aqueducts. Oh, the Romans truly understood the organic strength of the arch, but I shan't bore you with that. You want to know how this ghastly situation came about, me sitting on your chest, suckling the blood gently from your neck, letting you feel my warmth as your life force becomes mine. Yes, I am obscured from their view, but are you not so close to death, final death, that you can read my thoughts, my prayers for you?  
  
Oh, yes, I pray for you. I pray that you might have Final Death in ignorance, without the burdens of the full, undiluted truth weighing down upon you. I pray that you live, too, for I like you. No, I really do. Your blood is sweet and full of verve, hard to believe you are French at all. I want you to live. I want you to die. It is confusing, no? But the more I have of you, the more I want of you and the more I take and soon there will be nothing left of you.  
  
And I don't even know you. But have no worries, when I grant you that Final Death, I promise not to swallow what remains of your shriveled, black soul. Perhaps you will return as a lamb, and I can show you what I do.  
  
And perhaps you can return to me after that once again.  
  
It was my fault that things went wrong. They waited for me, for the map. They had no love of me for they know I am Clan Malkavein (wipe that blank look off your face, you knew I was Malkavien the moment our blood met) and they think me insane, and therefore treat me without the proper respect. So, I played their game, dressing as a judge, knowing they must follow me. Who is more foolish? The fool? Or those who follow the fool.  
  
I could have looked for a map at the college, too, now that I think about it. I could have roused Wolfgang from his slumber and forced him to draw a better map than I. But it is past time for recriminations. I simply can not be expected to think of everything.  
  
Once was enough, thank you.  
  
When I returned with the map, we set off. I took them by way of the fish market and I playfully suggested that we take up arms against the Sabbot, using FISH! "Hah! They'd never expect that, would they?!" The fools followed the fool, still, never knowing the fool was no fool at all. I joked on purpose, for I knew we were after Anarchs, not the Sabbot at all.  
  
I brought them to the sewer gate and I was overcome for a moment with a vision of the future. But it was of a far and distant future and I did not think the tale of Albert Spaggiari would find a sympathetic ear among my fellow kindrid. Nor did I wish to speculate on the odds that the map was but a copy of the map I drew for my dear Albert Spaggiari and that it would lead to where a tidy fortune of gold and jems will someday hide from even the cloistered Nosferatu... but that is indeed another story.  
  
I asked George to step forward, for only the Tzimisce was capable of bluffing the Anarchs whose secret base we might be about to breach.  
  
"Georgie isn't here." One of the Ladies said.  
  
In all the excitement, I hadn't noticed. I had the map, the pyrotechnics, and a deliciously flowing black robe. I couldn't think of everything. I must have taken too long and he wandered off. If he'd been here, things would have been different. The gangrel might still be in one piece, for example.  
  
Well, yes, technically, he's still in one piece, but he had such a wild beauty... he reminded me of Blaze just a bit. Now he looks more like a botched vivisection, but I am getting ahead of myself. Seven of us were going into the tunnels when you interrupted me.  
  
Don't lie to me. You're just stalling, waiting and hoping Harold will notice me sucking the unlife from a clanmate. You shan't be diabolized, what more do you want? Do you want to hear more about our rescue mission or not?  
  
I'm going to tell you, any way.  
  
I was so embarrassed. I was a failure, in front of Harold! I knew he would despise this weakness of mine so. I insisted he go first. Or the Gangrel as I was not fit to lead, and I figured Corky would want to get some exercise before he became one of those origami pieces the Portuguese sailors are so fond of selling.  
  
But I was wrong, for Harold smiled and motioned me forward. I was so worried that I might have forgotten something, I stuttered that something about asking the Nosferatu for permission to hunt in their territory. It would be the right thing to do. And he very patiently gestured again that I should go first.  
  
It was only then I realized the honour he was bestowing upon me! My god, some how Harold still trusted me! Me! The crazy guy in the white wig and black robe! And he wanted me to lead the rescue squad.  
  
You'll laugh yourself to death over this, we followed the map and came not upon the anarchs, but a dress shop.  
  
It occurred to me, at that moment, that perhaps the Anarch's base of operation was from without, not within, with the sewers and tunnels merely providing egress and access and escape and not shelter. The map was useless, I realized, for even if it was accurate, and I had to admit that it was not yet accurate, if it is ever to be accurate, it would be accurate much too late for the poor captured Toreador.  
  
You know, if only I had stopped to figure out what was so special about the missing vampire... One of the "sane" kindred should of thought of that, they think they are so smart. but, oh well, it's too late for that and I'm sure his sire can just make another one.  
  
You know, dawn is a funny thing. It hit us just before we came to the next catacomb. Or what might have been a catacomb... or a crypt. I would have died if it turned out to be another dress shop, let me tell you, my little undead sausage. Half the party just dropped where they stood, but at least they stopped bitching. I can't imagine how much they would have complained if they figured out where they would be sleeping that day.  
  
Harold and I found some alcoves to stack them in before allowing ourselves to sleep.  
  
The kind kindred who live beneath Nice provided us with breakfast, two older gentlemen and a little 8 year old girl, if I'm any judge of human flesh. All three unconscious, blissfully unaware of the fate planned for them. You'll probably be disgusted to know that they survived. Dark Sorrow began to argue almost at once that we should not drink of their blood.  
  
He is still so very mortal deep within his unbeating heart, despite the fact he is an assassin. I think he might even be kin save for the fact that all those who slept, awoke. He lies to hide the truth. If only lies could work such wonders upon my own eyes, I should be a happier man.  
  
The Nosferatu showed up about then, not that showing up is the right phrase, and I spoke to them as I was leading this sad group without question. We Malkavians have a special understanding with the Nosferatu, in any case. We both have truth and knowledge as the guiding lights of our clans. While the Nosferatu envy us the Baptism into the River of Undiluted Truth each Malkavian undergoes upon becoming Kindred, we Malkavians envy the Nosferatu their Innocence and their ability to pick and choose which truths they want to know.  
  
After offering the hospitality of my library haven at the University of Nice in exchange for their knowledge of the goings on beneath the streets, we learned the attackers were using the sewers to enter the walled city from the south-west discharge pipe, not too far from the river. Relatively speaking, of course.  
  
We escaped from the sewers at this point, leaving the two adults and little girl unconscious and unable to defend themselves. My friends consider themselves kind for this act. Have they forgotten how cruel the nights are to the kin? No matter, I fed, and while the night might well have been wasted, I feel that I have bonded more closely with Harold than I might have otherwise.  
  
The gangrel and the assamite stole my robes, and I let them, by the way. The oiled rags and the glass canisters were no great protection from the Scientific forces held within, and I played dumb with them as Harold watched approvingly. Let them blame the Nosferatu for the theft, as if they weren't shadowing our passage above ground as easily as they might have below ground. I know and now the Nosferatu know and knowledge is everything, you poor insensate slab of meat.  
  
I ran ahead to report to the Prince, taking only enough time to dress accordingly and wash the filth from my skin. The Prince must always see me at my best; the Prince must think of me as an artist and academic first, and a Malkavian second. That is why you yet live and why she would surely not begrudge me your soul, should I wish it. But if push comes to diabolization, your soul might not sit well upon my brain and I would be undone.  
  
And so I am careful. So very careful. Now... while no one is looking, take my blood... yes, a few drops and I can feel it within you. Replace what I have taken in part. And if you live, I shall find a way to feed you tomorrow night. And the night upon that following day, you shall take of me. You must, for you will be mad otherwise and all alone in enemy hands.  
  
Come back to the Camerilia, you silly bull of a walking corpse, for you can answer the riddle that I have and you taste too good to eat all in one night. Was it the Anarchs who attacked La Chateau truly? Was it the Sabbot instead, and our actions here fortuitous only to the Elders?  
  
My plan was to go to the sewer entrance/exit and await for the next Sabbot fool to come by, to sneak into the city. But as the Prince spoke to Harold and the others, I discovered that Sorrow was now playing house with Lady Fitch's Toreador friend. There was naught I could do but try to rescue my bombs. It would not do for such a pretty Toreador to open the bottles out of curiosity and expose the contents to air? Vampires, in case you did not know, burn real well.  
  
I tossed her room at the inn very well but I did not find the devices. I sample some rose perfumes and some citrus smelling oils, before I recall that it was getting late and when I returned to the castle, I discovered that the Capidocian, Tobias, had returned from where ever he was hiding while I was leading so many to the futile depths.  
  
Tobias... that was the guy that tried to suck all the life out of your fellow brujah anarch. You remember him, don't you? If you survive so long, remind me to tell him the nun really stands out like a sore thumb in Rue Guirdaria. You see, that's why we call it a ghetto... only Jews live there. Nevermind, I am almost sure he knows what he is doing. Almost.  
  
My plan seemed to have mutated somehow and it was with a perverse curiosity that I watched Tobias send an army of mortals to burn out our enemies. He hired enough mortals (lord knows where he got the gold) to endanger the massquerade, but... well, I'm sure you noticed the fire, so he must have done something right.  
  
The rest you know. The gangrel getting folded, spindled, and mutilated. The attack on what must have been your stronghold, where we whipped your ass, although it was hardly my shining moment. I think I fell three times in thirty seconds. And then your attack as we tried to liberate Corky from the huge cairn Harold had created for him. That wasn't nice, at all, you know.  
  
I'll let Harold carry you back. Maybe no one will notice me tending you from the shadows while you heal and then you can be my little special bloodsucking friend. I will be the guardian for your body for three nights and a voice within your skull far longer than that.  
  
You will change or you will die. It's as simple as that. 


	5. Training the Slab of Beef

I killed my childe to protect you, Dante. You know that, don't you?  
  
All that I've done to you, I've done for you.  
  
I took your blood so that you would have room for mine.  
  
I shadowed those who would destroy you, and let you sup from my wrist as you lay in the unkind darkness of your enemies to give you strength enough to confess your sins to my prince.  
  
Even as your betrayer nailed you to the wall with a shaft of birch wood, I was there to burn away your past crimes against my Prince. After you baptismal anew, it was I who pricked his finger on your frozen fangs, forcing my blood into your still mouth and down your throat when the stake would not even allow you the dignity of swallowing.  
  
I know you were confused by my not so tender affections; the hood and the restraints were designed not to break your spirit, but rather to focus it. I've always admired the swift and deadly reactions of your clan as well as their sudden insights of purpose and direction, but these moments of frenzy oft prove to be your clan mates' undoing.  
  
You are different, I know for I have looked deeply inside you. Don't worry; I put everything back where it belongs. I have the diagrams to prove it.  
  
I have been intimate with you in many ways. The healing touch of my kindred tongue along your giblets and gizzards has toughened them. I have pushed my blood within you, returning warmth to your limbs and stirring the desires of your manhood thought left behind in your mortal life; surely not even your sire showed you love such as this.  
  
I hope to share my visions with you Dante, but this peace Jean-Paul claims for us all slides the forecoming center of the Camarilla further more surely into Venice. We have accomplished nothing here except to have discovered each other; significant, but hardly sufficient. The Congress of the Night, my dream, my vision for Nice and my Prince is horribly endangers, and there are so many forces in play.  
  
Some have accepted the tale I tell them for they seek madness within me. Fools. So I give them madness, to all save the sheriff. Until your training with me is completed and a suitable disguise can be arranged, it is the only protection I can afford. They think I believe I am a Toreador, because I say I am a Toreador. I've told the sheriff, Harold, the same repeatedly once a day for four days now.  
  
Earlier this week, he agreed with me, you know, and then I told him Jean-Paul was a Toreador, too. This, I could see, piqued his interest and I let go the façade of madness from my countenance. Then I asked him how he knew I was a Toreador. "You told me," he says.  
  
And then I said, "How do you know Jean-Paul is a Toreador?" And then you could see the wheels turn inside his head...  
  
And then... I'm sorry, Dante, my sweet engine of destruction... what word didn't you understand?  
  
Oh! Well, the reason I just don't tell the sheriff I think the Seneschal is a Tzimisce is that I'm a Malkavian. He might believe I am not lying, but he may just think I've taken the blood from one too many drunken men. Also, and this is very important, I do not KNOW it for a fact. I am guessing. It feels right. No other reason, really.  
  
Well, yes, his obsession with the human form is a clue, of course. As is his hand in the most base human interaction, the rutting for money that seems the greatest source of income, the man enjoys debasement of the soul. And his squashing of dance within the city of Nice; surely no other art inspires vice than the rhythmic movements to music that so closely resembles the writhing and rutting his own business feeds off of.  
  
And lets not forget that word, treason.  
  
Toreadors are not creatures of politics. We are above that sort of thing.  
  
Oh, I'm sorry, Dante, I forgot I do not have to lie to you. Now where was I?  
  
I must hide in riddles, for my Prince is the lynchpin of my hopes and dreams for Nice, and should I be seen as endangering her seat of power, well, then I will forced out of Nice on a rail. Or I shall have a rail piercing my heart, and you know how painful that can be.  
  
Oh, don't bite your lip, dear Dante, I won't let that happen to you.  
  
Again.  
  
...unless, it's very, very necessary, of course.  
  
I am not even sure you are real Anarchs. Were. You need to tell me everything, my adopted childe. Who was your true sire? How did you come to be in that Ruined City?  
  
Who do you know within the city? Within the courts?  
  
Mind you, I am not asking you to betray anyone. I am merely asking so you do not betray yourself. I must disguise you against all who might recognize you, including, --especially-- the Prince, Jean-Paul, and Harold.  
  
That reminds me, too, you must tell me all you told them under interrogation. I know it must pain you to do recall that dreadful day, but I am here and I know you will be brave for me.  
  
I find it dreadfully sloppy, unless there was a reason for their madness, to wait until after your interrogation to appoint Harold to Sheriff. So many little clues, and only the lord knows the red herrings from the... ummm.... plain herrings.  
  
Stupid expression; it'll never catch on. I'm sorry I coined it.  
  
I will teach you to obfuscate your appearance, that should help a bit, but against Jean-Paul, I might as well give you a wooden sword and a cheesecloth shield.  
  
I also must take extra care with the Assamite now gone to ground.  
  
Let me explain, for he is also a danger to you, as much as any of them that you left behind. He is my enemy. His kind have stolen the Holy Land, let me tell you. And he is a thief, along with the Gangrel (although the poor thing is nothing more than a trained monkey, I am sure, or perhaps a crow simply fascinated by the shiny things).  
  
Most importantly, Sorrow lies about who he is.  
  
I simply can not abide liars and people who pretend they are things they are not.  
  
My "peace offering" chased him from Dolcea's home thus my "fellow" Toreador is protected from his corrupting influence. I do not know how he figured out my puzzle jar, but he escaped harm. Perhaps, it was simply happenstance, but perhaps not.  
  
I need more refined chemicals, I think, for I am sure I did everything correctly. *snicker* Perhaps I am more Toreador than I thought for here I sit complaining about the lack of refinement about me while avoiding to mention the fault may lie with me.  
  
Now, I must go and discuss things with my future protégé, Wolfgang. I wonder how he will take the additions of statuary as fittings for the chandelier chocks, although the raised viewing boxes for the elite was a stroke of brilliance. The opera house will hopefully prove to be a distraction to all involved...  
  
While I am gone, I want you to tell your tale to Piers; he will jot down notes so that I may have something to read should the day be restless for me. Then I want you to learn all you can from him of what the kine know of him and his former master. You may very well have to pretend to be Karnak's brother or cousin or something. And do try to find a picture of him around the villa.  
  
Of course there's a drawing or painting of him in this house somewhere. He was a Toreador. 


	6. My First Ghoul

(Long delay between games so I added this to clarify things I have only hinted out previously)

*******************************

  
  
  
  


Jean De Meung... ah... here you are.

  
  


My first servant, my first ghoul... my poet mage. I could not leave this haven for the Nosferatu and that damned Sorrow without the sketches of our first nights together. You were so young, so strong... so very convenient... so well placed... with all your parts in their proper places. 

  
  


And here are the sketches of our last night together. You were so much older and wiser, deciphering the meaning locked within the chest of glyph-marked stones that Blaze had entrusted me with. How you laughed at my offer to bring you across, to embrace you... your work had already made you immortal you said, as long as you were never forgotten.

  
  


Even today my sweet speaker of sooth, your Roman de la Rose is spoken of in reverence by the artists and scholars of Nice and your book is damned by theologists and clergymen in their pathetic little cloisters. But forget you I have, and for that I shall make amends not that I have my drawings of you with me again.

  
  


The Kindred Prince of Paris should have let me bring you across while your flesh was sweet, soft, and supple. I was truly mad to sit idly by as the years sucked the life from you, yet you can have no true complaints on that score, for I remained as I always was, to let you sup from my wrist, to lap the blood from my loins, to drink from my flesh what I drank from yours. I let you take me like a rutting dog and you showed me the mortal pleasures that was normally a wife's duty, had I lived to see the day.

  
  


Never did the madness touch you. I knew so little of my clan then, I did not know the risks. Your disdain for women grew into a fervent fever, over time, true. Many were the nights that I had to clean up your kills, although there is no arguing your reasons - they seemed perfectly sound to me - you must realize it was supposed to be the other way around.

  
  


The nights you insisted to wear dresses, to better bed the mortal Prince Phillip... Phillip the Long they called him and with good reason, from what you told me... well, that might seem mad to some, but what is the alchemy of Gender to one such as us? Generation and Corruption can not exist where like substances mingle.

  
  


"We spin in an ever-turning circle, and it is our delight to change the bottom for the top and the top for the bottom. You may climb up if you wish, but on this condition: Don't think it an injustice

when the rules of the game require you to go back down." As you translated Boethius for me, you made yourself my teacher even as I made you my servant. My slave. My lover. Showing me how dead I had been in life; top and bottom, bottom and top. I remade you. Renamed you. I introduced you to the angel you called Nature and it was I who married your fates together.

  
  


How could I forget you? Is my memory of our time together as much a disjointed ghost as you are now, rotting beneath the city of lights? I pray not, for I prey still and I would not be such an uncaring and dismissive monster.

  
  


I am so sorry I wondered off. I mislaid Paris, if you can believe that. So absorbed was I in my building of bridges and buildings, I simply lost track of time. When I had realized my mistake, I rushed home as quickly as I could to be by your side. By then, you where dead and half-rotted, although you looked better than those that will soon haunt these walls on a regular basis, and I felt bad for what I had done. I would have gone to dig up some more old friends, but I have had so few. I thought about taking you with me, but... well, you know how I feel about bugs.

  
  


And worms. Plus, you were pretty old when you died. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

  
  


This is why I am so strongly attached to my new friends. Since fleeing Paris... they outlawed Chess, mon ami. Chess! Charles and his stupid, stupid outrageous fears. And I was winning, I was winning. Well-beloved, my ass.

  
  


Speaking of which, you should have seen this beautiful ass I liberated from this farm I liberated from some farmers I liberated from life. He was so shy and smart, although he was afraid of me for some reason. I am afraid I misplaced him, too. 

  
  


Perhaps that is what he feared. Equines are so perceptive.

  
  


Where was I? 

  
  


Ah! Charles the Well-Beloved and the Prince of Paris. We were playing for the city, you know. If he won, I would let him slay me. Him being the Kindred Prince, of course. If I won, he would let me build this giant iron tower in the middle of Paris. I was sure I would win for I saw the tower in one of my dreams of things yet to come, lit by small, golden fires standing upon four legs as peasants crawled to the top to jump off.

  
  


But dawn came soon enough and I was winning and there were witnesses and the Prince was sweating blood. So very not attractive. There were enough of the Prince's enemies in the witnesses that I was sure he could not cheat, as I was sure he would. I wasn't sure how I was going to pay for all that metal, but I assumed something would come to me. 

  
  


Only, when I awoke the next night, it seemed that King Charles had OUTLAWED! CHESS! WHILE! I! SLEPT!

  
  


Ssssssshh!

  
  


The Prince had used his influence, I knew, to arrange this, but the King is the King and it's god's will that he rule. Charles, I mean. I doubt God had a hand in the Prince's ascension to the throne of Paris, after all. In my fury, as he knew I would, I smashed the chess board and scattered the witnesses... of course, this caused the Prince to happily declare the game a draw and be magnanimous about it, damn him! I was so furious, but I couldn't take my wrath out on the Prince. Of course not!

  
  


I stalked across Paris and right into Charles the Well-Beloved bedchambers and I bit into his neck like it was a juicy pair, although his neck was not that green, it was certainly gritty. Did you know his blood's not really blue? Anyway, I left him half drained and stalked off knowing that the curse you were spared would afflict Charles, and indeed, he is now known as Charles the Mad and was falling under the sway of the Duke of Burgandy.

  
  


You know, I'm not one to hold a grudge but... Chess, please... it was an outrage. Every few months, I hear he's shaken off the madness and I feel compelled to sup at his bedside. I still dream of an iron tower proclaiming Paris' manhood, and certainly I will find a way to erect it, but for now I am happy to make him suffer so.

  
  


So, I think the Prince holds a grudge and madness made Charles uncontrollable so he told the Inquisition where they could find me. And, so... here I am, with a vision and a great many friends, one of whom I must kill for he is a Moor and more. Much more.

  
  


There is Howald, he's a Bruhah who doesn't like to be called Harry. The Prince of Nice made him the Sheriff of Nice, which was nice, except I don't trust Jean-Paul the Seanachi.

  
  


There's Georgie, but I don't see him anymore. But he changes his own features around, so maybe I have but I didn't recognize him. 

  
  


There's the Gangrel, whose name I forget. They call him Spot behind his back, although after that terrible ambush, Smear might have been a better name. 

  
  


There's a witch name Gwynneth, although I have no use for girls, she is quite fetching and I am hoping she might fetch some gin-gin for me, that I might make some poison for Sorrow. Surely poison will prove effective where future memories of science are as yet unclear. Sorrow must die, although he is my friend and promised to introduce me to a werewolf I might study.

  
  


There's another girl named Dolcea Nola and I tried to rescue her from the Moor under her roof, but he escaped harm. In retrospect, it's probably better this way. If the inn burned down, that might have attracted the wrong kind of attention.

  
  


There is Tobias, the vampire saint of lepers. He is a dedicated man of science and apparently Christian for he keeps company with a nun. I think he was arrested last night.

  
  


There is Bridget Fitch and I despise her for embarrassing me in front of the Prince. I think maybe the Prince picked on that and asked Jean-Paul to take her down a notch or two. Last I checked, she was making an unliving on her back in one of Jean-Paul's whore houses. The Prince is so good to me that way. I might kill Bridget or I might not. Unlike the Sorrow issue, I don't _feel_ compelled to kill her. I still might. I like to leave my options open.

  
  


Who else is left? Roderick the Lasomba. Cute kid. I distinctly recall killing him at some point in the future. He's trying to be good and a part of the Nice social scene, but since so many of his fellow clansmen are running around kidnaping Toreadors... well, I guess I'll learn the reason I kill him when I kill him.

  
  


If I kill him.

  
  


It's not like everything I dream comes true.

  
  


I'm sure I've forgotten someone... OH! Dante. He's my new special friend. He used to be a Brujah but I'm going to turn him into a Toreador, just like me. I even have myself a Toreador ghoul. I would use you, my sweet Jean, but you've earned your rest. Yes, you have.

  
  


All I need is a gold mask and some theatre props and a little luck and the slab of beef can pretend to be Karnak, returned from the enemies. And because I have acted insane my friends will not suspect me of machinations against Sorrow. We have gelled. We have bonded and his death, final death, shall surely draw us closer.

  
  


Provided, of course, that I can get away with this.

  
  


I must say, I am rather proud of the way I rescued Dante from right under the noses of my friends. Sorrow was arguing with me about what FOOOOOSH meant when I said FOOOOSH, and so I grabbed a torch off the wall and stuck it in Dante's face.

  
  


FOOOOSH! He lit up like a candle, What with being chained to the wall and with the stake in his chest he could hardly move. Bridget threw water on him and doused his flames even as I wondered how long it would be wise to let him burn. The Prince, knowing my taste for the male form if not exactly the way I like them served, agreed to let me take Dante home to study in the same way that Tobias was taking another of the captured kindred for "study." 

  
  


I would have liked to see that. I really would have.

  
  


So, she had Dante delivered to what would someday be a clock tower, if we ever figured out what clocks were. I gave him my blood and schooled in all the things he must do to stay with me, and he learned faster than any dog did. He did.

  
  


And when it was time to give him back, I created a vampire childe all my own. I dressed him in Dante's rags and staked him while he cried tears of blood. I burned his face and sent him to the Prince's in Dante's place.

  
  


I am glad to have learned all you could teach me of castle intrigue, my sweet Jean. But enough about me...

  
  


How have you been?

  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Ashes

Claude's Reign  
  
Louisa is dead. My prince is dead.  
  
And, in all the time that I have known her, I have never taken her portraiture. We are immortal, after all, there always seemed that there would be time. To draw her draped while trying to capture regal nature and fragile aspect... it had always seemed so wrong, so wrong.  
  
Why should I let you live, while my prince lies as dust at the bottom of a well, probably cursing my name until the blighting rays of sunlight finally pressed down upon her? I should have known something was wrong the moment the kitchen staff began to avoid me as if I was the plague incarnate, but even then, would it not have been too late, too late, too late...  
  
Hmmm. Your head should not loll that way.  
  
Damnation, must all that I touch be destroyed? Must I always bear witness to the fragility of nature against the force of History? Must I be the Harbinger of doom to all that I meet?  
  
You must have water. You must have drink. You must awaken, to hear my confusion. My sweet Dante and the ghoul must not, can not, know of my weakness, my failure. There will be time anon to send you onward but I demand you... Listen to my confession!!!  
  
Priest, soldier of god, I baptize you in to MY service with a trip into the river. I break with god and his glory, if he would employ murderers such as you. Inhale deeply the runoff from the streets of Nice, for I have no need of mortal blood tonight. Thresh about all you like, it shall avail you not!  
  
I kill now to only to sate an anger only the devil could know... unless you are willing to listen to my story, now? Nod, if you are willing. Do not simply loll your head! Nod scream, your all seeing god won't be fooled by half measures, so why should I? Shall I make you recant, to spare your life? Was that the generous offer you threw down into the well to comfort my Louisa? Recant and we'll cover the well in darkness so that you may killed at the leisure of your enemies... is this the mercy of god you offered her?  
  
You are but the first, and dawn is coming upon us soon. You must carry my tale back to your superiors, little soldier of god. If you do not listen to me, there will be others, one each night until the message reaches the ears of all three Popes.  
  
Do not roll your eyes like that. You shall live, if you heed my words.  
  
I was once like you, but a scholar of god, not a soldier. This was before knowledge became as if one with sin. Mine was a god of love and mercy, and my savior would not let anyone cast a stone against the village whore, lest they themselves were free of sin. To that end, I've brought a whore here to witness you dark baptismal, she served her purpose, yet she serve it not well at all. I leave her fate to you to decide when my tale is done. I do this to see if my god is your god, or merely a golden calf pretender to the throne.  
  
There... there... that put a little colour back in your cheeks.  
  
Now attend my words, you mad zealot, and I will tell you of the World of Darkness you have transgressed.  
  
There is a treasure in the sewer, none but a precious few can see. It is well guarded and mysterious and protected by my enemies. If you get free, you may wish to descend into the underworld and liberate that thing that gives the Anarchs so much confidence. I know not what it is, but should you survive to speak to your superiors, they might reward you for this information.  
  
I care not, truly, for without my Prince, there is little reason to stay in Nice. Its charm is nothing more than a hollow echo to me now. My dreams and plans as dead at my feet as your comrades in holy arms. Alms? Once I have my vengence upon you and yours I may just raze the city with flames and move on. Perhaps I will surrender to the call of Venice.  
  
Those I thought my enemies may well become my allies.  
  
I have learned much from Dante, but little of Karnek, the man I would have him replace. Already I have begun construction on his masque, a golden face of Grecian beauty adorned with inlaid jewels, where tears would be. The ghoul has been of little help, save for contacts and maintaining the illusion of a Toreador household. Ironic it twas the Lasombra that took Karnak, and it was a Lasombra that helped me escaped. Reginald, his name was. IS. I've lost track of where he is at the moment... I think he is worried I am mad at him for staking me in the hidden passageway.  
  
I am not sure why he is avoiding me. The rat nibbled toes will grow back and it is not like I didn't ask him to stake me if I succumbed to the summons of Dolcea. A man can only resist her for so long, after all. I feel bad I was unable to stake him when he himself succumbed to her siren call.  
  
Oh, but I digress. No doubt these are details they did not teach you in seminary school. Should you survive, you may learn of these things yourself, some day. Should you survive.  
  
Let me tell you, then, of the wheels your murder of the Prince sent into motion. It was a galla event, for we of the Toreador clan are big on parties and arts. Very big; it is what we live for, if you can call this living.  
  
But WHERE IS LOUISA?  
  
I go to her room and she is not there. The loyal ghouls guarding her chambers tell me she left bearing a note, disguised as if she were a Monk in a very fashionable robe. I can hear the questions from the ballroom below, they all murmur... the very question that I ask is also on their lips, but they are not concerned. The Prince is a Toreador, after all, the phrase "fashionably late" is practically our invention, why would they be worried?  
  
But I know better, for I have had dreams of Nice buried in flames and my dreams are never wrong, just subject to my poor interpretations. More importantly, and more surely, the gala is her annual display of Kindred art and artifacts, perhaps dating back to the nights of Caine. The Louisa I knew would be fussing with every tiny detail, enjoying the manipulation of minutiae as only our kind can.  
  
Louisa' death would surely be the spark that burned the city, if I had to be the one to paint the cityscape in pitch. So, I returned to the party that had yet to fully start, and took aside the Lady Tremere who bravely led my friends beneath the donkey's stall when we first arrived together in the city of Nice separately. I told her of my dreams and my fears and that I knew in my unbeating heart that the Prince was dead.  
  
Well, dead dead. Final death.  
  
You aren't distracted, are you? This is very important. You must listen or I will kill you myself, now, before dawn.  
  
I may have confused her, I am not sure, so I went to investigate some more. Had a Toreador killed her, I'm sure he would have artistically arranged her corpse amidst the items she considered her unlife's work. I looked behind the curtain and did not see her corpse... thus proving once more my theory that Jean Paul the seneschal is not a Toreador at all.  
  
As Jean Paul apologized for the Prince's unexpected lateness, I heard the lie in his voice. Not only was he not sorry that she was late, but he knew she was late in ways no one imagined. No one but I, of course.  
  
I snuck off to his chambers and, without grace or stealth, killed the ghouls guarding the worthy's room. Jean Paul would surely have ghouls loyal to him and no one else, so I did not waste a moment to even pray for their souls. And within the room... was that Louisa tied to the bed?  
  
No, it was that whore you see over there. You can go to her when my tale is told, if you so choose. Attend my tale. Concentrate on my words.  
  
It was clear to me she was to be Jean Paul's alibi, for she knew not how long she had been tied to the bed. I fed her some of my blood and made her more aware of her surroundings. I gnawed at her bonds before I recalled that I had a dagger upon me. Having freed her, I set about causing Jean Paul much harm. I took his hoard of gold and gems and made a pair of bags from his nightshirts, filling each with a measure of his treasure. I told the whore, this bag was for her, and this second bag was for her fellow lady in the Trade, Brigid Fitch. A few drops of my blood in the bag and a few ounces of blood of one of the guards went into the second bag. Now my fate was linked to the Ventrue's fate; she would be forced to prove me innocent to save herself, for I knew that Jean Paul knew that I knew that he was no more Toreador than I, and he would frame me.  
  
Besides, even a Ventrue must surely understand the joke of blood money, yes?  
  
I tossed the guard out the blackened window once the whore left, knowing that the art pieces on the walls of Jean Paul's haven could only be fully appreciated by the light of a raising sun.  
  
I returned downstairs and discovered that Jean Paul had opened the gallery, supposedly on the Prince's say-so. The clever conniver! Well, I supposed that two could play at that game, so I asked if the Prince had spoken to him about my speech, but that cad out-maneuvered me! He had obviously been pretending to be a Toreador longer than I had. Put on the spot, I could only retreat into my guise as a harmless and pleasantly demented Malkavian and stumble my way through a few casual observations that I might have overheard Louisa mention at the last such gathering I attended.  
  
I burrowed a young neonate as a visual aide, but she protested and I was able to use my "confusion" to slip away as if I had forgotten where I was. Instead, I went to investigate further.  
  
Harold, my sheriff friend, took me aside and made it known that I was a suspect in the killing of the Prince. I tried to act surprised, but I rather expected it. I just hadn't expect this courtesy from the Brouja. I told him all I could, including the little detail about the whore. I wasn't going to, mind you, but when one of the guards prodded her into the chamber where we were discussing things, what else could I do.  
  
It was all making me look guilty. Very guilty, indeed.  
  
I trusted Harold. He obviously trusted me enough to give me this warning, so I decided to gamble on his good nature further. "Stake me," I said, "Hide me. Tell Jean Paul I got away and when he says I tried to kill him, you will know that he is lying."  
  
Harold agreed, although I wish he'd given me a moment to finish my next thought, and he staked me where I stood. He hid me in a privy, and there I sat for hours aware that my only alibi was Dante, a man they had all seen greet the sunrise. If it came to that, would I give him up to save my own skin?  
  
When the stake was removed, I stood before Jean Paul and just about every other Kindred in the city. "This wasn't the plan, was it?" I asked Harold calmly. I still trusted him, of course. Harold shook his head, no. This was a new plan, and having been in a state of suspended animation, who was I to judge?  
  
As the self-proclaimed new Prince of Nice accused me of crimes, I noticed that the Sheriff had arranged the Lasombra to stand next to me... and there was no one between me and the door. I half listened as I put the sheriff's plan together... the Capanotion, leaning forward as if to catch Jean Paul's every word, Harold's supposed inattentiveness, and if on clue, Brigid was suddenly thrust into the spotlight as Jean Paul accused her of aiding and abetting me. The poor lady, only then did my ruse become clear to her... to clear herself, she must first clear me of any wrong-doing. She did not return my smile as Jean Paul tore into her.  
  
As those two argued over semantics, I turned to Reginald and asked, very quietly, if the Lasombra wanted to have fun. Everyone always assumes a Malkavian is talking to himself when he whispers, but someone so obviously a spy in the court would only be too happy to help the suspected murderer of Prince Louisa, and with only a nod towards the door, an inky blackness fell upon the large chamber. There was some yelling, and Harold conveniently grabbed the wrong Kindred. I have to commend him for such a marvelous plan.  
  
Once we made our way outside, I directed the Lasombra up to Jean Paul's room, using his inky tentacles to scale the walls of the Chateau. This would be the last place I would look, so it was the first place I went to. We filled our pockets with gold, but I got bored waiting for Jean Paul to come to bed so we could stake him while he slept... of course, neither of us were sure if we could stay awake long enough to do the deed.  
  
I found a secret passageway and followed the staircase down into the sewers. Was Jean Paul really a Nosfuratu? There was no dirt in his room, which suggested that he may well not have been a Tscimzce as I have always suspected. I hate being wrong. Maybe he slept down here in the sewers... his dirt could be in an alcove somewhere around that portion of the sewer... We didn't find such an alcove, mind you... but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.  
  
Dawn was but a few hours away, and I was unwilling to get caught within the tunnels beneath Nice again, not if Dante was correct about them being in with the Anarchs. That was when I felt the first pull of Dolcea... I resisted, but... well, I had to beg Reggie to stake me to keep from going. I told him, if he were caught, to pretend I made him crazy... to pretend that everyone had turned into snakes in his eyes, but me.  
  
Being staked, hurt. You may discover that for yourself soon.  
  
Now, you should know, you allies have been routed from within our ranks and we have a new Prince and a new Seneschal in Nice. We are immortal, viva unlife! In order to save Brigid, our coterie organized a coup and I was released from the Blood Hunt as if I were a hero. I think the Lasombra did not fair quite as well, but I loved Louisa and he did not.  
  
Ah, but now there is a false dawn upon the city and I must be away and within my haven walls. That thirst you feel is for blood... blood such as still pulses within the breast of that broken whore clinging to hope for a merciful god... or, if you can restrain yourself, you might make it to the doors of your church before the sun breaks over the horizon. I know not how your fellow clergy would receive you in such a state... or what mercies they would see fit to render onto you... but I will give you more choice than you gave my Prince.  
  
Adieu. 


	8. Between Game Actions...

Between Game Actions with Claude: 

As Nice becomes unstable, Claude works hard at stabalizing things.... probably one of the worst things a Malkavian could think of doing. Normally, I do not interact too much with the other players between games; I'd rather surprise them during the game. 

*****************************************   
Roderick: 

Claude seems happy at first that the Blood Hunt is over, but you hear him mutter, "Vienna has won... Vienna has won..." Then he comes out of it... 

"Roddy... Rodrigo," he says to you, very solmenly, "Thank you for all that you've done. You're assistance was invaluable. You've risked much... a blood hunt, for god's sake. I owe you no small debt." Then he leans in quietly, "Besides... it was fun, wasn't it?" 

He makes sure no one is looking. "Now I wish to ask yet aother boon from you. Teach me how to spew shadows forth like you do... In return, I will teach you how to fade from sight without summoning a shadow... or perhaps, if you prefer something a bit more imaginative... I can show you the key to unlocking the chains of emotions... it's amusing to note how once unshackled, many become horribly entangled in their own emotions.... 

"Wouldn't that be... fun?" 

"I agree my friend, but my power of shadows is a secret that has to be kept, I am solemnly sorry but my clanmates would surly kill me if I were to betray their powers, and that would seem to hinder my plans to rule this city..." 

"Oh..." Claude's seems to be distant for a moment, eyes seeming to scan the shadows about them. "But this has been a very long night already... you've survived a blood hunt... one that has not yet officially been lifted, I can see that you might only have your clanmates to fall back on. That's understandable."   
  
Claude sighs. "Of course... once they learned how you were instrumental in removing one of their sponsors, and helped bring a new Toreador Prince to power... well, it would be all my fault. You must have an edge... let me at least teach you how to hide in plain sight... and perhaps I can also teach you yet another trick, perhaps how to make another more emotional and apt to make mistakes... and if I were to pick up a trick or two merely from watching you...?" 

"Possibly, if you were to "pick up " some of my skills, I would not mind if I was compensated " 

"I am in your debt, surely no one will question my spending time with you to repay that debt... would a few hours at midnight each night that I might teach you these things? And perhaps afterwards...? Well, as an artist, I am always interested in the play of shadow and light... perhaps I can show you how to create a more artistic expression of your shadow skills... Toreadors do so much appreciate artistry where ever they find it. Do you know a place we might meet, unobserved?" 

*** 

To the StoryTeller: 

Claude looks for an altar boy. A bad altar boy would be good, but one that looks a little like Louisa would be better. 13, 14. Something like that. No older than 16 (he'd be considered a man at that time, I think). 

Claude is doing this to act crazy, so it's going to be a little over the top. 

Claude ghouls the boy and leads the boy to believe Claude "lives" at the University, in a small death trap hidey-hole (anyone opening the door inward instead of outward at the bottom of the hole will get a load of bricks dumped on them). The chamber will have items of clothing and the petrified remains of a dissected and pinned rat to give it that pinned in look. Later, Claude may casually offer this to the Tremere. The room, not the rat. 

He designed this room years ago, thinking he might need it. The falling bricks are merely a device to explain away any bodies that might be found there. It probably isn't enough to kill a vampire, just mortals. Malkavians love practical jokes, you know, and if anyone tries to get information out of his ghoul, then they deserve a few lumps. 

The boy, of course, is not allowed to enter the hidey hole. 

Claude, of course, pays the boy a "nice" salary and paid his parents a few gold coins. Are these a few leftovers from Jean Paul? Claude cannot recall, but it's still blood money, and that too appeals to the Malkavian sense of humour. 

Claude is busy, busy, busy... since it works so well with Dante, Claude abuses the boy sexually after he is fully ghouled and then uses his blood to heal the lad. On the third night, Claude castrates the boy, licking the wound between his legs closed before healing him, so it doesn't grow back. Then he dresses the boy in a dress and a wig from the dress shop that has sewer access. He tells the lad his name is now Louisa and if he ever wants to drink from Claude's wrist again, he will answer to that name only. 

Slapping the boy around until he stops crying is not out of the question. Giving "Louisa" a handful of silver and copper coins, Claude will order "her" to get a room at a nearby inn and to get some half decent shoes to go with the outfit he picked out for "her." 

He's too busy to kill all the priests like he wanted to do, so he pays a few Jewish men of ill repute to do it for him. He casually plants evidence that these men were doing it all along because you can never be TOO careful. 

Claude spends one hour a night for three nights reading erotic love poetry to "Louisa" in her room at the inn. He is gentle and not abusive. He acts as if "she" has always been this way, and he even sketches "her." He lets his ghoul drink from his wrist, as he sips from "her" neck. He makes up things about Louisa and himself and describes their secret pact over the location of the slumbering elder whose name must not be spoken... because why the hell not. He wants them to think he's just plain crazy, after all, and not crazy like a fox. 

Claude gives "Louisa" notes to carry into the Chateaux, for now "she" must be a little insane "herself." The notes are, of course, written in "Louisa's" blood on used parchment paper. If all the notes were laid out and combined, one can make out clearly the university building where is NOT HIDING. 

The notes are sealed in an envelope with red ceiling wax. There is a note for Bridget, Dolcea, Harold, the Gangrel (Kevin), the baby Gangrel (Jo), and Matt. I'll send you the notes, this way you can decide how to dress the scenes, when they get the notes... and if they get the notes, too, I suppose. This way they aren't obviously from me. 

*** 

The Notes: 

*This is the first note Claude will ask "Lousia" to deliver. It is written in French. Let me know if anyone on my list cannot read or cannot read French and I will see that they get a version in French so they will have to ask someone. "Louisa" has all the notes on her person, and has been told what she must say to at least get as far as Dolcea* 

Prince Dolcea, 

In all things dark, there is ever a light. You shine upon us now,   
the dawn to our darkest hour. May your rule be as long and as just   
as my darling Louisa's reign has been. 

Looking back, I realize it was my failure to return your clanmate to   
Nice after we witnessed that first Anarch attack on the Chateuax that   
ultimately led to the death of my one true love. I have prayed to   
God and he has shown me the path I must follow in order to set things   
right. 

I have undertaken the first task and performed an ancient ritual to   
house Louisa's soul in the shell of this poor child's body. Once   
matured, I recommend you bring her across and let her take her place   
amongst the Touradors once more. I leave her in your gentle care   
until that day shall come, knowing that you would never allow my   
Louisa to come to harm, especially since I must leave Nice in order   
to complete my other undertaking. 

I must take a hairshirt and leave the city. I will not return until   
Karnack is safe and away from those fiends. Wish me luck. 

Louisa has several notes on her person, but she is still a bit   
traumatised over her death and rebirth. Please help her and I will   
serve you as welll and as loyally as I served my lady. 

-Claude 

*This is the second note Claude will ask "Lousia" to deliver in the same night as the others. It is written in French. Let me know if anyone on my list cannot read or cannot read French and I will see that they get a version in French so they will have to ask someone. "Louisa" has all the notes on her person, and has been told what she must say to at least get as far as Dolcea. In theory, at least. Claude once told Harold he only writes notes on the back of used paper, so the partial sketch on the back is important.* 

My Dear Bridget, 

In all things dark, there is ever a light. There is hope for you   
yet, I hope. I will always remember fondly they way you rushed to my   
rescue when I approached the farmhouse that first time we met. When   
I believed you allied with Jean Claude of your own free will, I must   
admit that I thought less of you. And I had already felt slighted by   
your lack of manners in not allowing me to introduce you to my most   
beloved prince the night of our first gathering in the Chateuax. Of   
all things that might be said of a Ventrue, bad manners is rarely   
included. I began to suspect that you were not what you seemed, but   
now, I retrospect I realize that perhaps you were being modest or you   
thought less of me because of that horrible rumour about me being a   
Malkavian. Perhaps in my eagerness to introduce my Prince to such a   
brave female, I frightened you somehow. 

For that, I apologize. 

I am on a mission from GOD. His gloriness has shown me how to redeem   
myself. Looking back, I realize it was my failure to return Karnak to   
Nice after we witnessed that first Anarch attack on the Chateuax that   
ultimately led to the death of my one true love. I have prayed to   
God and he has shown me the path I must follow in order to set things   
right. 

This child is Louisa reborn. She is the child of Louisa and myself   
might have had in another time. She is mortal still and her memories   
of her previous life is vague and indistinct. I have entrusted her   
care to Prince Dolcea, but I have a boon to ask of you. 

In case I do not return from my raid on the Anarch camp, please teach   
my Louisa the skills she needs to avoid the fate that once befell   
you. I could not stand to see her debased so. 

Please, for surely you must admit that I was not me, you would not   
sit in the position you sit in today. I assure you, Louisa is no   
threat to you. She is still a bit traumatised over her death and   
rebirth. Please help her and I will serve you as well and as loyally   
as I served my lady. 

By the time you have read this, I have left the city. I will not   
return until Karnack is safe and away from those fiends. Wish me   
luck. 

May God forgive us all. 

Your devoted Servent   
-Claude   


*This is the third note Claude will ask "Louisa" to deliver in the same night as the others. It is written in French. Let me know if anyone on my list cannot read or cannot read French and I will see that they get a version in French so they will have to ask someone. "Louisa" has all the notes on her person, and has been told what she must say to at least get as far as Dolcea. In theory, at least. Claude once told Harold he only writes notes on the back of used paper, so the partial sketch on the back is important. I should also mention that the imprint on the sealing wax is a rat's paw print, specifically from the disected thing in the hidey hole. Some day, Claude will buy a signet ring, I suppose.* 

My Dear Harold, 

Since we first met and you spoke those four little words, I was drawn   
to you. "What Are You Doing Here?" I have been drawn to you. You   
are powerful and savage, like my sire, and I have always felt safe in   
your arms, even when you are crushing my windpipe or staking my   
heart. This is a love we can not speak of, not even in a city as   
accepting and as civilized as Nice. 

Still, I find myself longing for your touch. Although I love   
another, you will always have a special place in my heart. Afterall,   
you believed in me when no one else did and you always took care of   
me. I will not rest until I see that you are not only sheriff but   
primogene of the Brutal clan. Say the word, and I will make your   
enemies vanish and your friends stand by your side, for that is where   
they shall know it to be safest. 

I will always remember fondly they way you rushed to my defense and   
approved of my taking the deed to the farm. You always listened to me,   
although you knew my secret. Could it be that you housed the same   
desire in yourself for me that I let burn in my heart for you? No,   
don't answer that, I am better off not knowing, I think. 

I never believed for a moment that you allied with Jean Claude. I   
knew you were too crafty for that. You knew that as a Malkavian that   
I could see patterens invisible to others, I must admit that I was   
frightened for but a second until it was made clear to me. You let   
the Capanocian come between us, casually manipulating the position of   
others in the room with your sheer animal presence... and I suddenly   
saw what you needed me to do. 

The brillance of your plan astounds me. The blood hunt proved to be   
quite a bonding experience between Roddy and myself. If you   
suspected he has friends amoung the Anarchs, you are quite right. I   
am using that bond you introduced between us to infiltrate the   
Anarchs and rescue the one we should have rescued weeks ago. 

When I think of all that poor man has suffered by now, I am quite   
jealous, really. No matter. I am strong and I take strenght from   
your confidence in me, as well. 

By the time you have read this, I have left the city. I will not   
return until Karnack is safe and away from those fiends. Wish me   
luck. 

I am on a mission from GOD. I will make you proud of me. Perhaps   
when I redeem myself, you will take me in your arms once more... in a   
manly way, of course... and perhaps my hands will linger overly long. 

Or perhaps not, for you see, this child is Louisa reborn. She is the   
child of Louisa and myself might have had in another time. She is   
mortal still and her memories of her previous life is vague and   
indistinct. I have entrusted her care to Prince Dolcea, but I have a   
boon to ask of you. 

In case I do not return from my raid on the Anarch camp, please love   
my Louisa the way I would have loved her... the way we can not love   
each other. I can trust you like no other, my dear sheriff, so   
please do not jealous. I assure you, Louisa is no threat to you. She   
is still a bit traumatised over her death and rebirth. Please help   
her and I will serve you as well and as loyally as I served my lady. 

If I survive, I suppose we could share her. 

Your loving Servent   
-Claude   


*This is the fourth note Claude will ask "Louisa" to deliver. It is written in French. Let me know if anyone on my list cannot read or cannot read French and I will see that they get a version in French so they will have to ask someone. "Louisa" has all the notes on her person, and has been told what she must say, in theory, to at least get as far as Dolcea. No signet ring, just a rat's paw print. The back of the notes contains a red herring, when combined.*   
  
>My Savage friend,   
>   
>You might be surprised to discover what happens when you pass on an   
invitation from the Prince. Yes, art is boring to someone such as   
yourself, but you missed a blood hunt. Damn lucky you weren't here   
for that as I was the huntee, so I thank you for your timing. Or   
your disinterest.   
  
I won't bore you with details. I figure you might not be able to   
read in any case. A whole lotta shit happened and while I was not to   
be blamed (although I was indeed blamed), I realize that I perhaps   
was the cause of it all when I look back.   
  
You see, it was my failure to return the Toreador to Nice after we   
witnessed that first Anarch attack on the Chateuax that ultimately   
led to the death of my one true love, Louisa. I have prayed to   
God and he has shown me the path I must follow in order to set things   
right. I realize that I should not have come back for help, that if   
I had my faith in God and nothing, I would have persaveered. I was   
cowardly in my faith and for that the whole city of Nice has   
suffered.   
  
Louisa would hate that, so I'm going to fix that. I have undertaken   
an ancient ritual to house Louisa's soul in the shell of this poor   
child's body. Once matured, Dolcea will embrace her and, perhaps let   
he be Prince once more. It is my hope that you can get to know her   
better; she always wanted a puppy.   
  
I have left the city. I will not return until Karnack is safe and   
away from those fiends. Wish me luck.   
  
Louisa has several notes on her person, but she is still a bit   
traumatised over her death and rebirth. Please help her and let me   
know if you don't get this note.   
  
-Claude   
  
  
*This note is the same as the others, but never made it to its recipient, who had been turned into a Gargoyle, apparently... The advice coming a bit too late, I suppose...*   


To the Newest Member of Our Family of the Night, 

I regret that I have not have time to pursue a more social   
relationship with you. Your new world of darkness is a very   
frightening place, indeed, and as a neonate you are sure to feel   
overwhelmed at times. 

The girl delivering this note to you is a prime example of how   
frightening this world can be. Once she was Prince but she was   
murdered and made mortal once more. Her past is lost to her and her   
future is uncertain. 

Watch how the Kindred flock about her. Watch how they engineer   
events and try to use her to their own purposes. They will be overt,   
for she is weak and mortal. As you watch, never forget that the same   
games will be played out with you as the target. To some, you are a   
resource to be tapped. To others, you are a canvas that they may   
wish to paint a picture on. To others, you are clay that they see   
fit to mold into a work of art or steel that can be beaten into a   
weapon. 

Trust no one. Not even me. And if you must trust anyone, trust the   
sheriff. 

-Claude de Ruen   
Toreador   


*This is the final note Claude will ask "Louisa" to deliver in the same night as the others. Unlike the others, this written in Italian. In case someone other than Tobias gets it and they cannot read Italian, I'll send out an Italian version of this note, so they will have to ask someone. If they so desire.   
  
"Louisa" has all the notes on her person, and has been told what she must say to at least get as far as Dolcea. In theory, at least. Claude once told Harold he only writes notes on the back of used paper, so the partial sketch on the back is important. I should also mention that the imprint on the sealing wax is a rat's paw print, specifically from the disected thing in the hidey hole.* 

My Dear Frind Tobias, 

Since we first met over the body of a fallen Kindred and you spoke   
those four little words, "My knife or yours?" I have felt a certain   
sympathico with you. 

I may not make it back alive. I will always remember fondly they way   
you rushed to the city's defense and I was quite angry with Jean Paul   
for taking credit for your brilliant tactics. I made sure Louisa   
understood the truth of the matter and that may well be why Jean Paul   
had to kill her. 

I am extremely grateful for the way you came between Harold and   
myself just before the blood hunt, casually manipulating the position   
of others in the room, just as we planned. 

The brillance of the plan astounds me. The blood hunt proved to be   
quite a bonding experience between Roddy and myself. He has friends   
amoung the Anarchs, or so he told me. I am using that bond you   
helped introduce between us to infiltrate the Anarchs and rescue the   
one we should have rescued weeks ago. 

When I think of all that poor man has suffered by now, I am quite   
jealous, really. No matter. I am strong and I take strenght from   
the knowledge that you are here to help see to the needs of the city. 

I am on a mission from GOD. 

This messenger is Louisa reborn. She is the child of Louisa and   
myself might have had in another time. She is mortal still and her   
memories of her previous life is vague and indistinct. I have   
entrusted her care to Prince Dolcea, but I have a boon to ask of you. 

In case I do not return from my raid on the Anarch camp, please help   
her recover her memories of her past life as Prince of Nice. There   
are too many secrets her soul holds dear to allow her to take them to   
the grave. Please help her and I will serve you as well and as   
loyally as I served my lady. 

If I survive, I suspect things will get very interesting. 

Your Friend in Science,   
-Claude   


********************   



	9. Leaving Nice

This is where we must part, Wolfgang; I can go no further.  
  
Take this sketch of the demon Vascal and bring it back within the city walls and be sure to give it to Brother Albert, he who's true faith in god is stronger than our faith in science.  
  
I apologize for all that you've been through, my friend. Although our escape from Nice was a good thing, I know you can not fully appreciate how horrible things may have gotten had we stayed at Nice. Oh yes... it could have gotten much, much worse.  
  
Since my dark descent into the horror gripping Nice, I have lost my first childe... yes, I had a childe, I kept him secret from all that knew me that, even you. He was sacrificed for the cause so that others my live... if you could call such a thing as we do living. My other offspring... I had no choice but to give them to the church, hoping that the church would show them more mercy than they ever showed me. I know not their fate, but for their sake, they are as dead to me as I am of them.  
  
As my faith believes me to be. As I believe my own faith to be.  
  
Take this map that I sketched as we traveled forth. These are the stars where the soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire must march towards and these are the rivers that must be forged. A local woodsman can guide them, if needs be, but by all accounts, this is where they were ordered to go in the first place. There should be no trouble in finding the lost Grecian city.  
  
Of course they will believe you; are you not the son of the House of Helsing? You are well off and educated, not given to mindless fear and superstition. They must believe you, for the Anarchs must die.  
  
And, of course... there is the neck wound... do not worry, the bleeding has stopped. I would have bled you more, but you will need to row quite a ways and the smell of blood might have distracted me... I mean, attracted my enemies. Brother Albert will surely purify you as gently as possible, so have no fear. It is for the greater good.  
  
Dawn is but an hour or two away, and I must be away myself, for such is the curse I must bear alone. Do not come ashore until the sun has risen... sleep as much as you can during the day. Buy a horse with the gold I have given you and convince the army to march towards the ruins, please... it is the only chance of redemption that I have.  
  
Godspeed, Wolfgang Van Helsing... may we never meet again.  
  
***  
  
The dead man helps push the stolen boat beyond breaking waves. Wolfgang does not wave. He rows like a man possessed, as if he knows how close he had come to becoming exactly that.  
  
The dead man watches for few moments, contemplating the dreadnaught that is History. He wastes a moment drawing a breath for a sigh that only he can hear.  
  
Venice has won.  
  
If only he could have brought the Congress of the Night to life, he muses, the future would be different. But now it will not. The Anarch movement will give birth to the Sabbat. The Camarilla will generate the Masquerade. The Time of Thin Blood will draw ever closer and without the bread and circuses his cathedral to death would have created... Kindred on both sides will plot deeper and yet somehow, ironically, shallower intrigues.  
  
Still, he had to try and, in truth, the effort did not cost him much. At least, not as much as it cost Louisa, but still it was her time to go. The only truly regrettable thing about her death was that she had died so ugly a death at the hands of such artless Anarchs and the priests. Given a chance to do it all over again, the dead man would have killed her himself so that she would have at least appreciated his artistry one last time.  
  
It cost the choir boy his future, but he hardly had one to begin with and there were more than enough poverty stricken sopranos in Nice as it was. At least he has been blessed with the truth of the world as it is and the truth of the universe at large. Perhaps he would return in a decade or so to see if God's mercy meant the boy would retain those truths or not. Perhaps not, for it was quite hard to be a visionary these days. Take Joan deArc... no, wait... that hasn't happened yet. Or has it?  
  
No matter.  
  
It cost Dante so much more than his life. He'd lost his unlife. Twice. First as himself and then as Karnak... but then the dead man's actions had spared him from the attentions of the Caponotian and from the punishments decreed by Louisa. The real Louisa. If the neonate still walked in the night, the thing that called itself Claude believed the church would remedy that come dawn... if not sooner.  
  
In truth, all it cost him was to act as fop to some, a visionary to others, and a nightmare the sweet screamers in the back of the kitchen, where the hearth was warm and heady with the smells of spices. There the smell of blood would be muted ever so slightly, but enough to quiet the beast long enough to take the proper amount of time to play with his food.  
  
This he will miss most of all from his time in Nice. Oh, there will be other kitchens, but the smell of cooking food was always his weakness, even when he was a fat monk with a beating heart. When he was lean and wild- eyed and still in the habit of breathing, he missed the scent of the kitchen most of all. Whatever one might say of Louisa, she knew how to keep a proper kitchen.  
  
It was about time to return to Paris and forget about future visions. If Charles the Good hadn't forgotten his enlightenment by this point in time, he would do so soon. And then he could turn his attention back to that very annoying chess game.  
  
But dawn was but an hour or so away and it was now time to let the earth swallow his body. There would be time enough to build bridges to the future tomorrow night. Claude lay upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.  
  
Or blood.  
  
Hmmmmm.  
  
The ground ignored him.  
  
Claude frowned.  
  
He was positive his sire, Flint, had taught him how to merge with the ground within hours of bringing him across. How else had he survived living on the side of a mountain? In the wild? Of course... Claude had to reluctantly admit, he could not recall the name of the mountain, either.  
  
Ohhhh... maybe this was why his mind was obsessing with recalling the glyphs of the Philosopher's Stone. Did a part of his Malkavian infused grey matter know he would need this talent? Were the glyphs that poured out of his hands, first in charcoal and then in blood, a cry of warning to remind him that he had forgotten A Very Important Thing?  
  
Claude inhaled and exhaled, and felt extremely stupid for doing so... Claude rearranged himself more comfortably upon the ground and stared up at the stars, willing for the ground to swallow him whole, to absorb his very being as if he were but a drop of rain.  
  
Or of blood.  
  
Damn. He was hungry. Perhaps that was the problem.  
  
Claude stood up, brushed himself off and began walking west. God would provide, he knew; the Almighty had so far, hadn't he?  
  
Just before dawn, God provided Claude with cave a local cheese maker had furnished with crates and sundry tools. Claude liked the way it smelled and he liked the way the goat herder tasted, and he fell asleep with the Shepard in his arms in a pit in the back of the cave, telling the old man tales of a land not yet discovered as he shivered in his death throes... 


End file.
